


Breeding Stand

by ceywoozle



Series: One Word Bottomjohn Prompts [50]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Animal Play, Breeding stand, Fucking Machine, M/M, Puppy Play, role play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-16 05:26:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3476111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceywoozle/pseuds/ceywoozle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part of the One Word Bottomjohn Prompt Series.</p><p>The things Sherlock does for John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breeding Stand

The straps are leather and soft, the metal frame padded. It’s not uncomfortable. The restraints around him are firm but not too tight. Even so, John tries to wriggle and can’t.

There is a hand on his back and he tries to arch into it. Can’t get far and the quiet laugh in response is low and delighted. John whines.

"Hush, puppy," Sherlock says. "Almost there."

The hand disappears. Pressure on his legs, pulling them apart, his thighs being strapped in. He wants to look back, to watch, but his head is bound to the chin rest. When the last tightening pull of the leather straps is complete, he hears Sherlock step back. Hears the huff of satisfaction as he stands back and looks down at his handiwork.

John is held in stance, hips and chest supported, his belly sagging down between. His head is upright and he stares straight ahead. He looks proud. He  _feels_  proud. His thighs are spread wide and he is exposed, the cheeks of his arse spread and the base of the wide plug on display, and he is aware of how postured he looks right now. How perfect for his purpose. He knows Sherlock will be writhing and he tips his hips upward, straining against the leather straps, challenging him to stay away.

He hears the quiet intake of breath. The ghost of a touch on the base of his spine.

"Later, pet," Sherlock says. "You will be bred for me once you’ve emptied yourself, and only after you are wide open and begging."

John snorts, a wordless animal sound of indignation. He does not beg.

Another low laugh, another touch. “We’ll see,” Sherlock says.

There is a sound then of something heavy being dragged along the floor and John strains against the chin rest to see behind him, but he is too firmly in place.

"Are you comfortable, dog?" Sherlock asks, and John knows this is important. He shifts on the cushions beneath his knees and his palms, wriggling against the leather straps, testing them to make sure nothing is being cut off. When he’s certain, he makes a high yipping sound, an affirmation, and Sherlock pats his bum with proprietorial pride. "Good boy."

John feels fingers around the base of the plug then, tugging it firmly out, and John whines as it pops free of his body. Immediately he feels the warm slide of lube leaking from his hole, then warm fingers with more lube are pushing back into him, coating the ring of his anus, sliding inside him and searching around. John tries to press back into them and can’t so he whimpers instead, wanting.

"Patience, dog," Sherlock says, and he pulls his fingers free. "I will breed you once you’ve begged. But don’t worry, I’ve no intention of leaving you empty until then."

Something sounds, machinery clicking. Something hard and slippery and cool presses against his hole and then pushes forward. It is enormous, unfamiliarly so. John’s mouth opens in a wordless cry, the sound torn from him. It’s very large, larger than Sherlock, who has never been small in any part of him. It stretches at the ring of his entrance and he feels the choking burn of it as his body learns to accommodate it.

“Look at you,” Sherlock says. “So beautiful. You were meant to be stretched like this, dog. It’s what you’re for.”

John shifts, straining against the straps. He doesn’t know if he wants to pull away from the intrusion or drive himself back into it but it makes no difference because he can’t move so he whimpers instead. His belly sags unsupported and his cock and balls, slotted into the hole cut out for them in the support under his hips, give desperate twitches against the sagging flesh. A hand appears in his hair, sliding against his scalp, fingers tightening and tugging and John whines.

“It’s a fucking machine, dog. I got it especially for you with that toy. I was afraid you wouldn’t be able to take it when I bought it, but I see I was wrong. You can take anything, can’t you, dog? It’s what you’re for, after all. To be stretched and prised apart. And look at how beautiful you are with it inside you like that. It’s going to keep you wide open for me, for when I come back and fuck you properly. It’s going to make you come, it’s going to empty you. And only when you’ve come three times with the machine will I fuck you myself, fill you with my seed and breed you. Fill you with puppies until you are stretched and strained, your belly round and full, and you will forget what it was like to ever be empty. This is what you’re for now, dog. This is all you’re good for. To be fucked and bred. I will keep you full until you are moaning and shaking and you no longer remember a time when you weren’t stuffed with my cock and my seed. Now, make sure you count, dog. Remember how many times you’ve come. And don’t lie, because I’ll know.”

And then the hand is gone and John pants, mouth wide and tongue out. A sound is coming from him, high and wordless. He hears the switch of the machine turning on and it’s all the warning he gets before the toy drives forward and the sound he is making becomes a cry as it fills him, abrupt and merciless, stretching him and splitting him, only to retreat again a second later, leave him hollow and wanting as the toy pulls back to sit at the entrance of his hole. It doesn’t stop. There is no pause between the pulling back and the driving forward. The toy fucks him, the machine pistoning the dildo in and out of him. It is hard and fast and enormous and John whines open-mouthed as it pulls him apart.

He doesn’t realise he’s alone, not until he hears the slam of the front door in the hall downstairs. The last echoing quake of it on the air and as soon as that realisation hits him, his first orgasm rips him apart and he screams as the heat of it splatters his belly and his chest and his body strains against the ties to convulse with its strength. But he can’t move and the whole time as he comes the enormous dildo continues to fuck him, continues to split him apart, and John feels himself sagging, feeling himself fall into the supports, and in his head he begins to count:  _One._

~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock stands in the bedroom door and watches. John. Beautiful John. Stretched and aching and always wanting to be full. He wonders how long this will last, the novelty of this new toy. He watches it pistoning in and out, watches John strain to push against it, and he watches as John gives an animal grunt and comes.

It’s beautiful. John is beautiful. Sherlock wants to go to him, to touch him, to look at his face and watch him come apart, but he knows that would ruin the game. He knows John is enjoying this too much, recognises the signs of his bliss and knows he would not be thanked for his concern.

So Sherlock stands, silent and unmoving in the doorway, and watches, and counts.

_Two._


End file.
